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I knew a man Bojangles, and he'd dance for you |
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In worn out shoes, with silver hair, a ragged shirt |
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And baggy pants, the old soft shoe, jump so high |
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Jump so high, then he'd lightly touch down |
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I met him in a cell in New Orleans, I was down and out |
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He looked to me to be the very eyes of age |
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As he spoke right out, talked of life, talked of life |
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Laughed, slapped his leg and stepped |
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He said the name, 'Bojangles' and he danced a lick |
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Across the cell, grabbed his pants, a better stance |
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And wow, he jumped up high, clicked his heels, he let go a laugh |
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Let go a laugh, shook back his clothes all around |
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Mr. Bojangles, Mr. Bojangles |
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Mr. Bojangles, dance |
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He danced with those at minstrel shows and county fairs |
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Throughout the South, he spoke with tears of fifteen years |
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Of how his dog and him, had traveled about, his dog up and died |
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He up and died, after twenty years he still grieves |
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He said, "I dance now and every chance at honky-tonks for drinks and tips |
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But most of time I spend behind these country bars 'cause I drinks a bit" |
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He shook his head and as he shook his head |
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I heard someone ask please |
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"Mr. Bojangles, Mr. Bojangles |
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Mr. Bojangles dance" |
